


The Doctor and the Noble Woman

by FernDavant



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Fix-It: s04e13 Journey's End, Multi, Post-Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, the Doctor learning and fixing mistakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6640402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernDavant/pseuds/FernDavant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's post-Hell Bent, and the Doctor has a better idea of what Donna Noble went through. He thinks it's time to make amends, but it's going to take some patience and some help from his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Doctor and the Noble Woman

Every second Tuesday of every month, Donna Noble gets a mani/pedi, then heads over to a nearby café. She likes the mani/pedi, likes being able to afford such things, and splurge, likes the way people look at her with her designer clothes and her affected airs.

At the café, _Chrissy’s Café_ , she always orders a mocha latte, and forces it down her throat. She really doesn’t like mocha lattes, but she reckons that this is what rich people drink, and Donna is now a _rich person_ , having won the National Lottery. Donna convinces herself that the grimace she makes as she drinks the mocha latte adds to her air of being rich, mimicking the sneer that rich people always seem to have, like they’re smelling something foul, and that the something foul is the unwashed masses.

The whole time she’s in the café, Donna plays on her phone, carefully ignoring said unwashed masses. Carefully ignoring the hollow feeling in her chest.

The Doctor has learned all this, has carefully watched this pattern, and checked it again and again, popping around in his time machine.

The Doctor is now sitting outside the café, leaning against the wall, long legs stuck out, oblivious to the way people glare as they maneuver around him. He’s noodling on his guitar, and wondering why he is here.

 _To apologize_ , the voice in his head reminds him.

The voice in the Doctor’s head is half mystery, half earworm. Like a song. Like he’s forgotten. He’s forgotten and there is a hole in his mind, and inside that hole lies the voice in his head.

 _Clara_ , the voice reminds him. But he’s just going to forget it again.

The Doctor has forgotten, and that is why he is here: to see Donna Noble, the woman he made forget. To apologize, like the voice says, to apologize that he ever contemplated making another woman forget. To commiserate with the only other person in the universe who can understand this feeling he now has.

He wonders if Donna has a voice in her head, and if the voice is half as helpful as his.

 _If she’s lucky_ , the voice teases.

The Doctor smiles to himself.

Donna walks out of the café about now, trying to ignore the Doctor, because rich people do not look at homeless buskers, except, perhaps, to sneer, and Donna’s run out of sneer-energy today. She makes it a block before her heart clenches in a weird way, and she doubles back, listens to the weird homeless man play for a minute, and then sort of tosses a few pound notes in his direction. One lands in his hair.

The Doctor looks up, smiles at her. Donna gives a tight-lipped smile back, and stomps off, trying to pretend like nothing happened.

**

The next mani/pedi session, the Doctor is back, still noodling, still waiting. He’s not a patient man, but he’s learning. He’s going to be patient for this.

 _You owe it to her,_ the voice says.

Donna notices him before she enters the café this time, pauses at the door, hand poised over the handle, looking at him. After a long second, the person behind her grumbles and tells her to move out of the way. Donna puts on her best ‘haughty rich person’ look, shoots the person a glare, and goes inside to order her mocha latte.

The Doctor sits and thinks and feels Donna’s eyes watching him from inside the shop. And then, to his surprise, Donna marches out of the café, cup of coffee in hand, and asks him, “Would you like the rest of my mocha latte?”

The Doctor tilts his head, “Why?”

“Because I don’t actually like them,” Donna admits, “but I don’t want to waste it, and I want to buy a cup of tea. So I figured, you know. Do you want a biscotti too? And to sit down with me? It looks like it’s going to rain.”

“I thought—“ the Doctor begins. But he doesn’t know what he thought.

 _Accept the coffee,_ the voice says.

“I’d like that. The coffee and the biscotti I mean. And the, not getting rained on.”

Donna nods.

They don’t talk much, sharing the table, the two of them, and his guitar in a third seat like a chaperone.

It doesn’t rain, and the Doctor realizes it might have been an excuse. It always sort of looks like it’s going to rain in London.

Donna gives the Doctor another handful of pound notes before she leaves.

**

The next mani/pedi session, Donna walks right up to him, no-nonsense, hand stuck out expectantly. “I didn’t see you last week.”

The Doctor grabs Donna’s hand, lets himself be levered up. “I don’t come every week.”

“You should,” Donna huffs.

“I will then,” the Doctor replies.

“Do you actually like mocha lattes?” Donna asks as she pushes the Doctor into the queue in the café.

“They’re rubbish,” the Doctor admits.

“Yeah,” Donna agrees. “They are. What do you want?”

“Cuppa’s fine.”

“Me too,” Donna nods.

“What’s your name?” Donna asks when they finally grab a seat (a booth this time, his guitar sat next to him.

The Doctor panics a bit. He can’t be John Smith, but he hasn’t thought this far ahead. He’s good at being other people. He’s _always_ changing the person he is. He should be able to handle this.

Instead, he panics, and says, “Rupert Pink.”

 _You’re an arsehole,_ the voice in his head says.

They’re right, the voice, but all the same, Rupert Pink was a boy with too many nightmares who had to overcome his fears, and the Doctor is facing up to one of his fears, one of his nightmares right here. It’s fitting.

“Weird name,” Donna says.

She’s rude. He can deal with that.

“How’d you become homeless?” Donna asks.

“How’d you become rich?” the Doctor retorts.

“Won the lottery.”

“I’m not homeless. My home just moves around a lot,” the Doctor says. Which is, strictly, true.

“Are you always this full of rubbish?” Donna asks with a huff.

 _Always_ , the voice in his head says.

“Always,” the Doctor affirms.

They don’t talk much after that, but when Donna hands him another fistful of pounds, she says, more than a little threateningly, that he should be there next week.

**

Next week, then. And the next, and the next, and the next.

Donna talks a lot, but he already knew that. She gossips a lot; again, not new. But her relationships with her mates are strained—moochers and hangers-on and women she never even liked very much suddenly complimenting her and begging her for money.

“It really shows you who your real friends are, you know?” Donna says wistfully.

“Who are they?” the Doctor asks.

“I don’t think I have any,” Donna admits, voice sad and small.

“You have me,” the Doctor says.

Donna snorts. “Yeah. You’re my favorite hobo.”

Donna _does_ have friends, from what it sounds like, from what she shares with the Doctor. But she also has a lot of acquaintances that don’t deserve her and crippling self-esteem issues hidden behind brashness and bravado which doesn’t let her realize the real friends she does have.

 _You’d finally convinced her of her worth. And then you took that all away,_ the voice says.

 _I can convince her again,_ the Doctor replies. _That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?_

 _Yeah,_ the voice says, approving and just a little bit fond. _That’s why you’re here._

**

She does have someone who loves her very much. Shaun, the man she married. He’s not been after her for her money, barely spends any of it, still has a job in the IT sector, dotes on her, constantly telling her she’s the most beautiful woman in the world, the most precious woman in the universe.

“Oh, I love him,” Donna says. “’Course he’s full of it.”

“No, he has it exactly right. You are the most beautiful, precious woman in the universe,” the Doctor affirms.

“Steady on, Rupert. Might need to reverse my idea that you aren’t a sex predator or an axe-murderer.”

“I don’t even own an axe,” the Doctor says, puzzled.

 _Maybe not the greatest way to convince her you’re trustworthy, yeah? How about just saying something polite about her husband_ , the voice suggests. The voice is so good with helping.

“What I meant is, it sounds like your husband is lovely,” the Doctor amends.

“Yeah, he is,” Donna agrees, fears forgotten now. “You should be jealous.”

“Oh, I am,” the Doctor says, since it seems like the best course of action to take.

**

The Doctor, no _Rupert_ , genuinely becomes her friend, someone to listen to Donna talk about the most random things: the soaps, what she just watched on telly, the petty squabbles between her and her mother, what a marvelous person her grandfather is (the Doctor’s heart clenches to hear he’s well).

“Money’s the root of all crap, yeah?” Donna paraphrases badly. “I mean, they’re half wrong, whoever the ‘they’ is that say that. I got a lot less to worry about, and it’s really bloody nice being rich. So, like, maybe people are the root of a bunch of fucking rubbish?”

“People can change,” the Doctor replies, a thought coming into his head. “Do you ever travel?”

“I—did. I think,” Donna says, getting a strange look in her eyes like she does sometimes when the Doctor brushes too close to something that’s not there. The Doctor recognizes that look. He sees it in the mirror a lot these days.

“Maybe you should do it again,” the Doctor suggests. “Or get a job.”

“The only thing I was ever good at being was a temp,” Donna huffs. “That’s not exactly a rich person thing, yeah?”

“Temps are lovely. Temps are like the—the grease that oils the corporate…something.”

 _Nice metaphor_ , the voice says with a snort.

Donna rolls her eyes, exactly as impressed by that as the voice in his head is. She gains a thoughtful look, though, then concedes. “Maybe I should travel. Do a thing around Europe.”

“That sounds nice,” the Doctor agrees.

And for a month, they don’t meet again.

**

Donna seems indifferent about her European tour. It was all very posh and people were obviously jealous of her, and for Shaun and her it was like a second honeymoon. Nonetheless, she details everything she hated about the whole thing, in great detail, to the Doctor, though, complaining that the Mona Lisa is completely rubbish because it’s not got eyebrows (“You should donate some of yours.”), grousing about the Sistine Chapel (“It’s just a really big church.”), talking about how unsettling Pompeii was (“A bunch of dead ashy people. Gave me terrible nightmares.”).

“Greece was a bit shit. Got terrible sunburn.”

“What about Athens and all of the sights?” the Doctor asks.

“Bunch of marble. Overrated. Reminded me of bathroom décor.”

Travel has broadened her mind significantly less than the Doctor expected.

But when Donna lets out that she can’t wait to go again, he realizes she’s lying about how much she enjoyed it. Donna would never repeat an experience twice that she hated. She doesn’t have time for that sort of rubbish.

 _She’s protecting you,_ the voice explains. _She doesn’t want you to be jealous._

“I’ve travelled a lot in my life,” the Doctor says, in reference to the voice.

“Yeah?” Donna asks, skeptical.

“Yeah,” the Doctor says. “I’ve been to Pompeii. And Greece and Italy. Seen the chapel. And the Mona Lisa is rubbish once you realize she doesn’t have eyebrows. But she did originally! I love travelling.”

“It’s not bad,” Donna says non-commitally, but she can’t suppress her smile.

 _Good job_ , the voice says.

The Doctor smiles at seemingly nothing at all.

**

“You’re too skinny,” Donna says. “You’re all elbows. You’re like a stick. Or like a q-tip. Thin piece of nothing with a bunch of fluff stuck on the end. Do you eat anything other than the biscotti I buy you?”

“Sometimes,” the Doctor says.

 _You don't eat enough. Or sleep enough. Even for your superior Time Lord physiology,_ the voice goads.

"I'm not having you starve to death. It would be bleeding inconvenient finding your body keeled over outside this caf. What a mess that'd be."

"I try to keep my deaths clean," the Doctor muses.

Donna boggles at him.

_Human, remember? One life. One death._

"I said, 'I'll try to keep my death clean,'" the Doctor repeats loudly, much louder than his other comment.

Donna tilts her head, squints at him, then shakes her head, seemingly deciding that she _must_ have misheard. "What I'm trying to say, you idiot, is I reckon you ought to come around to mine for Sunday roast. Only if you promise not to nick anything, of course."

 _This is important_ , the voice says. _This is a big deal. She's trying to treat you like family._

"Alright," the Doctor agrees, inclining his head towards Donna.

 _Manners,_ the voice presses.

"And thank you," the Doctor adds.

**

Donna now lives in a great estate outside London ("Like proper Downtown Abbey bollocks," she had said.). She'd offered to arrange to have a car pick him up, to which the Doctor had vehemently protested, insisting he could make his way there on his own.

And he has made his way there. But now he's pacing around the TARDIS, oddly panicked.

 _Not the hoodie,_ the voice says. _That's what gives you the hobo vibe. And absolutely not the holey jumper._

The Doctor grumbles at that. He likes the holey jumper. It's like comfort food. But clothes. Comfort clothes.

_Velvet coat. Or the wool one. Pressed shirt. Proper Doctor-y clothes._

The Doctor sighs at the voice in his head. But ultimately it is the voice in _his_ head, and while it may be the facsimile of someone he used to know, he's writing the scripts now, so he's just arguing with himself at this point.

3:30 sharp, he raps on the door. He half expects a butler. Maybe a valet. Jeeves. Wodehouse. Whichever.

 _Don't be draft,_ the voice chides gently.

And it's not a butler. It's just Donna, trying to look like she's not happy to see him.

 _You used to do that_ , he says to the voice in his head. _Pretend to not be happy to see me_.

 _Best way to keep your ego in check,_ the voice chuckles. _Besides you did exactly the same to me._

Donna leads the Doctor into her living room—the old-fashioned aesthetic of the house that is practically a manor is ruined by the nouveau riche look of working class furniture and a giant telly—and introduces him to Shaun and her mum and her granddad.

"This is Rupert," Donna says. "He's the mad homeless bloke I met outside the cafe."

Donna's mother opens her mouth to say something, then closes it. Shaun gives a bemused look at his wife, then stands to shake the Doctor's hand. Finally, Wilf gets up, offers his hand, and the Doctor pulls him into a bear hug.

 _You've really got to make up your mind regarding your opinion on hugs_ , the voice says. _Also, that was way too much for someone who ostensibly, I remind you, you have just met._

 _I'm happy he's not dead,_ the Doctor protests internally, fighting with himself again.

_For the love of god, don't say that out loud._

"Sorry," the Doctor says out loud, instead. "I got carried away."

Wilf smiles gently and pats the Doctor on the back. "That's alright. Any friend of Donna's is a friend of mine."

"Yeah, well don't try that with me," Donna warns.

The Doctor nods in agreement. Not that Donna's bad at hugs, exactly, it's just that she's extra good at slapping, so best not.

Momentary weirdness set aside, the group sits down for small talk, Mrs. Noble ("Excuse me. The _other_ Mrs. Noble, thank you. Like I'm gonna take a bloke's surname.") periodically popping into the kitchen to fiddle with the food, the smell of roast slowly suffusing the room. Wilf explains that even though there's loads of rooms in the place, they really only use a few on the first floor.

"Then how come you bought such a big house?" the Doctor asks, brows furrowed in confusion.

"Donna wanted it," Wilf explains with a shrug.

"You spoil her," Mrs. Noble gripes, an old fight clearly begun once more.

"Damn right," Wilf affirms. "After Donna's...illness, she deserves everything."

"Illness?" the Doctor inquires.

"She had a trying few years a while back," Mrs. Noble says, trying to be delicate, and shooting her father a look that indicates he's said too much.

Donna huffs. "I have no clue what you two are always nattering on about with all that. I'm fine. I haven't been _not_ fine. Bit forgetful, maybe. But sometimes you two treat me like I'm made of glass!"

Shaun tries to calm Donna. "I wasn't there for the illness, but she really is fine now. Nightmares occasionally, but overall, she's in wonderful form."

The Doctor looks at both Wilf and Mrs. Noble, trying to gage the truthfulness of this statement. Both seem a bit sad, but he can't detect a lie.

_You're rubbish at detecting lies._

"I get nightmares too," the Doctor offers quietly.

"Right cheery you are, Marvin the Martian," Donna snorts, but there's no rancor in it.

The Doctor likes Shaun a lot. He's smart and caring and Donna and him make quite the comedy double act, although the Doctor is never quite sure if Donna's in on the joke. But, Shaun loves her fiercely, so that's good enough for the Doctor.

Wilf's lovely too, as always. The Doctor is inordinately pleased that the old man still seems to like him. It's reassuring, being liked by Wilf. It makes him feel like a better person than he's felt like in a long time.

And Mrs. Noble. Well, even she seems more pleasant.

The Doctor is forced to flex his measly small-talk skills. Usually, Donna does all the talking, and he does all the nodding and polite smiling. But now, they're all talking to him, and asking questions that aren't rhetorical. The Doctor fails to keep the talk 'small' when he ends up talking with Shaun about sysadmin, and this goes a bit awry the third or fourth time he asks, "Have your lot invented this yet?"

Luckily, the roast being ready saves him, and for a time, all conversation ends while they all eat. The Doctor unearths half-remembered table manner lessons, but they seem to be from an alien culture too far removed from 21st century Earth to be helpful. He gives up, decides to wing it, and when it doesn't seem like anyone's staring at him like he's feral, the Doctor proceeds along the course he's set out on.

There's an extended period of silence before Donna asks, "Where'd you get that ridiculous jacket? I've never seen you in anything other than that hoodie and the jumper with holes in it. If you can't even afford a complete jumper, how'd you wrangle that velvet abomination?"

 _Don't say you stole it_ , the voice warns, which is lucky, because the Doctor's first thought is that this seems a plausible lie, and he should go for it.

"A friend gave it to me," the Doctor offers instead. This is strictly true.

Donna stares at him openly. "You have other friends?"

"I used to," the Doctor replies. "Now they're just a voice in my head."

Everyone freezes and stares at him.

 _Okay, that's bad. That's something that is going to make you sound completely mad to humans,_ the voice says.

"I mean. I don't have a voice in my head. That would be mad."

Nailed it.

 _You are so far away from having nailed it that you don't even know what a hammer is_.

 _Do you have to be so sassy?_ the Doctor asks the voice exasperatedly.

 _If I'm in character. Which, by the way, is a character working off your script, so this is all on you_.

He’s always been his toughest critic.

Mrs. Noble reaches over and pats the Doctor's hand. "It's alright, dear. We're all friends here."

That goes better than expected.

No one really asks him questions after that. The roast is good, though.

After the meal, Mrs. Noble sets about cleaning everything up, while Donna and Shaun talk about the Doctor where they don't think he can hear

But he can hear. He's sitting in the stylistically mismatched living room with Wilf, watching cricket. Wilf can hear the whole conversation, as well.

"Are you sure he's safe?" Shaun asks, concerned.

"Oh, lay off it, Shaun. He's mad as a bag of cats, but he's not dangerous. I've been spending most Tuesdays with him recently, and I'm still alive."

"I just worry about you, you know?" Shaun says.

"Don't!" Donna protests. "Sorry for bringing strays home, though."

"She doesn't mean it," Wilf says. "It's just her way. That's her being fond of you."

"I know," the Doctor agrees, even as he hears Mrs. Noble join the argument, bickering ensuing between the three of them now.

"I quite like you," Wilf says with a nod.

The Doctor sits, watches the bowler's ball fly past the batter's swing, strike the sticks, dislodge the wicket. "You don't even like cricket," the Doctor says, then realizing he shouldn't know this, adds, "do you?"

"No," Wilf admits. "Hey, do you like cigars?"

"Maybe," the Doctor muses. "I have done before. Don't know if I do now."

"I have some nice cigars. If you don't tell Sylvia or Donna, we can go out back and smoke them."

The Doctor nods appreciatively, and Wilf and him sneak outside. Wilf is fiddling around in a shed near the house, putting on an electric kettle, and getting out the hidden cigars, when the Doctor becomes distracted by the massive, expensive telescope Wilf's got set up nearby. Top of the line. State of the art. The Doctor starts tinkering with it absentmindedly.

"Do you stargaze?" Wilf asks when he finally comes over, handing him a thermos of tea like it’s contraband, and handing him a cigar, which _is_ contraband.

“From time to time,” the Doctor says, striking up a match, trying to light the cigar, burning his fingers instead, dropping the match, and trying again three or four times, before digging through his pockets, pulling out a yo-yo, a newspaper clipping, and some paperclips, before he comes up with a lighter. He lights Wilf’s cigar bashfully, as though apologizing for wasting his matches.

“I love stargazing. Have done for a long time,” Wilf says, taking a slow pull on the cigar, savoring the taste. “You know, you’re probably the only person who’d believe it, and who I can tell this to, but I’ve travelled in time and space. So’s Donna.”

The Doctor tries his cigar, chokes on it, rallies, tries again. Holds the smoke in this time, tries to decide if he likes the taste of the smoke, or if it makes him feel cool and sophisticated, or relaxed, or whatever.

Eh. It’s okay.

“You alright?” Wilf asks. “They’re not the expensive kind or nothing.”

“No, I’m fine,” the Doctor says. “I’ve also been to space. Lots.”

“Would you like to see some constellations?” Wilf asks, ignoring his apparent madness.

“Wilf,” the Doctor says with a sigh. “It’s me. I’m the Doctor.”

Wilf turns to him in amazement, almost dropping the cigar. “Doctor? Really? What are you doing here? Is Donna in trouble? How can I—“

“No one’s in trouble,” the Doctor reassures Wilf quickly. “Everything’s fine. I’m just—I’m here to apologize. To fix mistakes. Endings. I’ve been learning about endings. Trying to get better at them.”

“This is about our Donna, then,” Wilf says a bit wistfully.

“Yes,” the Doctor agrees. “Our Donna…I made a mistake. I’ve been doing that a lot recently. I’m trying to see if she’s okay. Trying to be her mate. I’m trying to figure out something…something I haven’t figured out yet. But when I do figure it out, I’ll be sure to take action.”

Wilf gives him a hesitant smile. “You know, it’s not your fault, Doctor.”

“No,” the Doctor replies, rather sharper than he intended. “It is my fault, Wilf. You weren’t there. I made a mistake. That’s okay though. It’s been a thousand years, but I’m going to find a way to correct it now.”

“A thousand years is a long time,” Wilf muses, turning to look at him properly. “Bet you have some stories to tell.”

“Maybe,” the Doctor says. He’s trying to make amends, but that doesn’t prevent him from still being a squirrelly bastard. “Do you want me to make your telescope extra good with my sonic?”

“Sure,” Wilf offers. He’s used to the Doctor’s ways. He’ll give him the time he needs to open up.

“Oh,” the Doctor interrupts, digging into his pockets and handing Wilf just a ridiculous amount of pound notes, crumped up and in fairly poor shape. “Here’s your granddaughter’s money back. I don’t need it.”

Wilf gets a bit teary-eyed at this.

 _He’s proud of his granddaughter,_ the voice in his head supplies. _Of how kind she is._

The Doctor’s kind of proud, too.

**

The Doctor walks up to the woman he’s been looking for over the past two months. He’s finally caught up with her at a posh do, sitting at a table all by herself, looking imperious, and fiddling with her evil phone thing.

The Doctor sits down opposite her, puts his boots up on the table, throws a pack of cigars into the center of the table.

“Hello,” Missy says, not even looking up from what she’s poking around with. “Come to thwart me? I’m always down for a good thwarting.”

“I’m not even sure what you’re doing,” the Doctor admits. “Here, I mean. What your plan is. I mean, you bought an ice cream parlor. That’s—that’s not particularly evil, yet.”

“Just you wait,” Missy says with a broad grin, putting her phone away.

“I got you some cigars,” the Doctor says, nodding towards them. “You like them, I seem to recall.”

“Who’d you steal them from?” Missy asks, looking at them skeptically.

“No one! He said I could have them.”

Missy looks uncertain, but she pockets them anyway. “So. Where’s the puppy?”

“The what?” the Doctor frowns.

Missy whistles exceptionally loudly. “Here, puppy, puppy. I do so love playing with her. Last time she fought me over a stick. I mean how much more stereotypical can you get?”

The Doctor stares at Missy blankly.

“The puppy I got you?” Missy elaborates. “Small? Adorable? Big brown eyes? Clara? Look, I thought my joke was clever, I can’t help it if you—“

“Oh,” the Doctor says tonelessly. “Clara’s gone.”

“Gone?” Missy asks, squinting at him like if she stares hard enough she’ll be able to see all the answers. “What do you mean gone?”

“Gone,” the Doctor says with a shrug. “Just gone.”

More squinting. Finally, Missy shrugs and gives up. She’ll find out. She always does. “Right, well, why are you here, then?”

“I need a favor,” the Doctor admits.

“Anything,” Missy says, leaning forward, steepling her fingertips, eyelashes fluttering and voice gone all husky.

“It’s not that,” the Doctor scowls.

“Well, you’re no fun,” Missy snorts, leaning back. “What do you want?”

“I need a cranio-bit-partitioner circuit.”

Missy scoffs. “Yes, I’ll just pop ‘round to Gallifrey and get you one, shall I? In case you missed it, someone misplaced the only place with that sort of technology, and his name starts with a ‘D’ and ends with an ‘R.’”

“Actually, I found it again,” the Doctor says. “So, if you could pop ‘round, that’d be helpful.”

For a second Missy’s face flashes something—fear, surprise, a mixture of both—but she gets it under control again shortly. “Where is it?”

“When is it, actually,” the Doctor corrects. “But we need to come to an agreement first.”

“Why do you need a cranio-bit-partitioner circuit?” Missy asks.

“Ah, well, you know how I’m a rubbish telepath?”

“Darling, everyone knows you’re a rubbish telepath. You’re such a rubbish telepath that if you were a good telepath, it would only be because you were capable of constantly mentally projecting to everyone the phrase, ‘I am a rubbish telepath,’” Missy says dryly.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” the Doctor protests.

 _It does_ , the voice says. _Plus, it’s funny._

The Doctor is really tired of ganging up against himself.

“Look,” the Doctor soldiers on. “I might have done a situational mental block on a human in order to prevent her brain being destroyed by the overrun of a mental link with a meta-crisis—“

“Alright, so the first five words had at least fifty bad ideas in them, and if I know you, you executed that whole thing with as much grace as a bull in a China shop. Does this have anything to do with the reason Clara’s not here?”

“No,” the Doctor sniffs.

 _Yes,_ the voice corrects.

“Well, sort of,” the Doctor admits.

“And how could you even correct for any vocabulary triggers with the mental block?”

“Doesn’t matter!” the Doctor growls. “I did it. It’s done. And she’s lived a good ten years now, so clearly it wasn’t as badly done as you think.”

“Can’t believe you did that to Clara,” Missy laughs.

“It wasn’t Clara,” the Doctor says crossly. “This happened ages ago. Right around when you were blond and hungry.”

“Don’t judge.”

“I wasn’t going to,” the Doctor protests. “Back to the issue at hand. I need a cranio-bit-partitioner circuit.”

“Why,” Missy ponders, trying to play it cool, “would I go back to Gallifrey when the great Lord President has me at the top of his hit-list. You remember him, I’m sure. Pain in the R-arse-illon?”

“Erm,” the Doctor starts, chewing on a finger. “I might have accidentally staged a coup, deposed the entirety of the High Council, and exiled Rassilon.”

“You absolute twat,” Missy says, leaning back and laughing. “Every time I try to instigate a hostile takeover of Gallifrey, I spend hundreds of years, only to fail. And yet, how many times have you waltzed onto Gallifrey—usually against your will, I might add—only to accidentally disrupt an evil political scheme, discover some sort of Gallifreyan secret, and, before long, have everyone screaming, ‘Oh, Doctor, Doctor! Please be our President!’”

“That is not how it happened,” the Doctor protests.

 _Yes, it is_ , the voice in his head says.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Missy huffs. “You still haven’t explained to me why I should risk my life. Rassilon isn’t the only person on Gallifrey who wants to kill me.”

“Well,” the Doctor offers, “you’ll find out where Gallifrey is.”

“Not enough,” Missy shakes her head. “I’ll find out eventually.”

“You’ll find out all the gossip on me.”

“Really do not need help on that.”

“Plus, there’s a massive power vacuum.”

Missy raises an eyebrow. “Are you seriously trying to encourage me to take over Gallifrey?”

“If I thought you had a chance at it, I wouldn’t be encouraging you,” the Doctor shrugs. “So, yeah, sure. Go ahead. Be President.”

Missy looks at him. Sighs. “To be honest, I’m not exactly sure where I’m going with this ice cream parlor thing. So, I guess, sure. Whatever. I’m in need of a laugh.”

“Great!” the Doctor says brightly, just stopping himself from clapping his hands together. He pulls a slip of paper out of his pockets, handing Missy the space time coordinates. “I’ll wait here.”

“Don’t follow me!” Missy says with an accusatory finger. “I’ll not have you near my TARDIS.”

“I already figured out you have a TARDIS,” the Doctor says. “It’s not some big secret.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Missy says with a huff, sauntering off.

The Doctor only has enough time to eat one of the canapes that Missy had on a tiny plate before she returns, giant rip in her jacket, hair falling out of her bun, and looking generally disorganized and disgruntled.

“My Lady President, I think not,” the Doctor says with a smirk.

Missy throws an electronic chip at his face. Hard. It hits him underneath his left eye, hard enough to draw blood.

“Hey!” the Doctor protests, grabbing at the chip. “Was that really necessary?”

“Yes. Because you didn’t tell me the Sisterhood of Karn was there. Or that you’d killed the highest ranking member of the Gallifreyan Guard.”

“He got better. And technically,” the Doctor mumbles, “I’m the highest ranking member of the Gallifreyan Guard.”

“Yes, and you get yourself killed all the time, so my point still stands,” Missy huffs, shoving several canapes into her mouth in a threatening manner. “Ohila is fucking furious at you.”

“Isn’t she always?” the Doctor asks.

“Yes, but she seems particularly cross.”

“Did you not hear what all I’ve done?” the Doctor says, reaching for a canape. Missy grabs his hand, tight enough to draw blood with her nails. The Doctor yanks his hand back (managing to wound his hand more thoroughly), suitably quailed. The Doctor shrugs, then admits, “I think she thinks I have some manner of ‘social responsibility.’”

Missy cackles. “That’s barmy.”

“Isn’t it, just?” the Doctor agrees with a smile.

Missy smiles back.

For a few seconds, the two of them pretend they’re not mortal enemies. It’s nice.

Then something explodes in the distance.

“Whoops, that’s me,” Missy says with a grin that is much toothier, much nastier, and much more feral. “’Ta.”

“Missy,” the Doctor whines, disapproving and slightly tired.

 _Did you really expect anything different?_ The voice asks.

No. He didn’t. But he did so _hope_.

**

One thwarting of an overly complex plan later (that _still_ didn’t involve that bloody ice cream parlor), and the Doctor is in mortal peril. This is the usual state of things.

“How good are you at neurosurgery?” the Doctor asks, hands up in a placating manner, staring down the barrel of a gun.

In hindsight, breaking into the office of a doctor who also happens to be highly trained in combat and alien dispatching is _not_ the best idea he’s ever had.

 _I told you so,_ the voice says. And so, they had.

“Who are you, and how the hell did you get in here?” Martha Jones asks.

“TARDIS,” the Doctor replies, a sufficient answer to both questions, really, and with his head motioning towards the corner of the office where the time machine is parked.

Martha puts her gun down, but does not holster it. “Doctor?”

“Obviously,” the Doctor says.

Martha snorts, finally holstering her gun. There are very few other beings who would be this arrogant and this unafraid in the face of a weapon. “You got old.”

“You have no idea,” the Doctor replies. “Back to my question: how good are you at neurosurgery?”

“Erm, not very,” Martha admits. “That’s sort of a specialty, and it was never _my_ specialty.”

“But, you’ve done it before, yeah?” the Doctor coaxes.

“On aliens, mostly,” Martha says. “And mostly under emergency circumstances.”

“Is that what you do here?” the Doctor asks, standing and looking about. “Shoot aliens and then suture them up?”

Martha glares. “Don’t. Mickey and I offer a variety of services. Capture and neutralization of aliens, but also medical aid to alien refugees. We mostly deal directly with aliens, actually. They tell us about the threats. We’re trying to help.”

“You ever heard of a woman called Mayor Me?” the Doctor ponders, turning towards her.

“No,” Martha replies. “Should I’ve?”

“Yes, I think you should,” the Doctor decides. “I’ll get you a number. Back to the brain stuff. Do you happen to _know_ any neurosurgeons?”

“Doctor, are you under the impression that all doctors know each other? Perhaps have a big doctor club? A Skype group? Because, that’s _really_ not how this works.”

“You’re the only doctor I know,” the Doctor says, rather plaintively.

“Oh, don’t whine,” Martha huffs. “Why not go to UNIT?”

“This is not a thing I want to talk to UNIT about. The procedure involves a bit of tech that I don’t trust UNIT not to nick and try to do experiments on. Also, I sort of need to be involved in the procedure. Also, also, it’s a human, not an alien, who would be the uh, patient.”

Martha raises an eyebrow. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Does that mean you’ll help?” the Doctor asks, turning towards her, wary but a little excited.

“Doctor,” Martha says, reaching out to grab his hand. “I’m your friend. Of course I’ll help. And any friend of yours would do the same.”

 _Remember that_ , the voice in his head says.

He really hopes he does.

**

The Doctor considers not telling Wilf his plan, considers just whisking Donna away and hoping for the best. And perhaps, not too long ago, he would’ve done. But the voice won’t let him.

 _And if he doesn’t want you to do it, you better not bloody do it,_ the voice reminds him.

But Wilf _is_ willing to do it. Wilf trusts him, as misguided as the may be, and nothing the Doctor says can convince him that this trust is misplaced.

And Donna’s opinion of the whole thing, well. In the last few minutes when she still remembered this all, Donna made her opinion quite clear.

So, all systems are go.

The surgery takes place at Martha’s top of the line operating theatre.

Martha finds a proper neuro-surgeon to assist, insuring that they will be silent, mainly because they are alien themselves. They’re quite good at working with humans though, so the Doctor is reassured.

It’s an intensely complex operation. And the Doctor’s not the best suited to doing some of the chip programming, or even to undoing the botch telepathic job he’d done, or even to keep his hands from shaking, but he is fully prepared to endlessly blame himself if Donna dies, so there’s that.

 _You’re such a maudlin old coot,_ the voice says.

The Doctor doesn’t argue this point.

The surgery ends without Donna dying, but they’re not out of the woods yet. Donna’s still unconscious, and they won’t have any way of being sure the whole thing’s worked until she regains consciousness.

“Her brain could fry itself as soon as she wakes up,” the Doctor confesses to Wilf, who is sitting by Donna’s bedside, holding tightly onto her hand. The Doctor is pacing frantically. “And I won’t be able to do anything about it this time. The chip will prevent me. So…”

The Doctor can’t say anything else.

“Well,” Wilf says wearily. “If this is it, at least I’ll be here. We all have to die sometimes.”

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor says softly, still pacing. He’s not crying. His eyes have just gone humid.

“You tell that to her,” Wilf scolds. “And don’t you dare start burying my Donna before she’s dead. She’s tough.”

“Yeah, she is,” the Doctor agrees.

Donna doesn’t wake up for 12 hours. Wilf doesn’t leave her side the whole time, and the Doctor doesn’t stop pacing.

Wilf is half dozing, and the Doctor is counting floor tiles, when a soft voice says, “Grandad? Doctor?”

Wilf jumps to attention, squeezing Donna’s hand. “Sweetheart. Are you alright? She remembers you. That’s good, isn’t it, Doctor?”

“Maybe,” the Doctor says, flitting around, looking at monitors. It all _seems_ to be fine. “Does your head hurt, Donna?”

Donna shakes her head mutely. “What did you do?”

“I undid what I had done,” the Doctor babbles. “I fixed it. I gave you your memories back, partitioned the Time Lord bits in your brain off into a chip. That means you won’t have proper access to them—a little bit of leakage maybe—but your brain won’t fry either.”

“Doctor,” Donna says softly. “Come here.”

“Yes?” the Doctor asks, scurrying towards Donna’s side, knees knocking as he kneels on the floor to be able to lean as close to Donna as possible. “What is it? What can I do?”

“You’re an arsehole,” Donna says, her right arm reeling back, and socking him on the chin.

The Doctor’s last conscious thought is that it’s really quite remarkable how hard that woman can punch merely hours after serious brain surgery. But then again, Donna Noble was always quite remarkable.

**

“She broke your nose,” Martha says when the Doctor wakes up a few hours later. “I set it. You heal quickly, so it should be fine. You deserved it, anyhow.”

“Yeah, I did,” the Doctor says, his voice thick. There appears to be quite a lot of cotton gauze stuck up his nostrils. “Is she alright?”

“Yeah, she’s great,” Martha says. “We’ve done the tests you advised. Memory leakage is about 2.5% between the partition and her mind. So, she might be able to solve a physics problem that she shouldn’t, but it’s well within the safety parameters. She seems to remember all the details of her own life, both before she met you and after you two parted. She hasn’t answered a question wrong, and Wilf keeps quizzing her about memories anyway. And everything we’ve asked her about the stuff you two did together, she remembers.”

“Probably better than she did before,” the Doctor confesses. “I might have had to augment some of her memories with mine because I managed to damage some of them during the process of the scrambling.”

Martha pats the Doctor on the shoulder. “She’s doing well. Quite cross when she found out we shaved her hair, though.”

“Oh, damnit,” the Doctor thinks suddenly. “How are we going to explain that to her mum?”

“She’s already thought up a story. She’s gonna claim she went full Brittney Spears.”

“That’s smart,” the Doctor says with a nod. “I don’t suppose she wants to see me?”

“No,” Martha says shortly. “Wilf will be along in a bit, though.”

The Doctor nods slowly.

Martha moves to leave the room, then pauses at the door. “Hey. She might want to see you eventually. And even if she never wants to speak to you again, for what it’s worth, you did the right thing.”

“Thanks,” the Doctor says with a smile. “You know, Martha Jones, you are a treasure.”

“Martha Smith now, thanks,” Martha says with a wink and a grin before exiting the room. “And I do know that, yeah.”

**

It takes a week for Donna to fully recover. The Doctor’s insured there won’t be a scar and has managed to get enough technology to get the suture wounds to heal more quickly. Now Donna just looks like she really did pull a Brittney Spears. The plan is to take Donna back a week, and drop her off a bit after she’s left, once she’s recovered, and judging by the fact that neither Wilf nor her have gotten any panicked phone calls, they know the plan’s already worked. The Doctor’s already programmed the space-time coordinates into the TARDIS and shown Wilf the lever he has to switch to make it go. The Doctor plans to hide in the library until the trip’s over. Wilf’ll come get him afterwards, say goodbye, and Donna Noble will get on with her life, the life she wanted, the life without the Doctor’s stupid mistake.

The Doctor’s been spending a lot of time in the library waiting for Donna to get better. It keeps his mind distracted. He’s in the third library (the one with the pool and the bird vivarium), treading water and reading a floating and waterproofed copy of _Jonathan Strange and Mrs. Norrell_ , when he hears footsteps and someone walking in. He figures that it’s Wilf, coming for a chat, holds a finger up without turning around, to indicate that he’ll be right with him after he’s finished the page he’s on, and almost drowns himself when he hears the person who just walked in speak.

“Your swim trunks. Have question marks on them,” the voice says, her voice in her trademark tone of part mocking, part disapproving, and part just plain baffled. “Why the _hell_ do your swim trunks have question marks on them?”

The Doctor flails about in the water, remembers how to swim, and turns to face Donna, who is walking towards the edge of the pool, toeing out of her shoes, and adjusting her skirt so she can dangle her legs into the water.

“I like these swim trunks,” the Doctor says finally. He doesn’t make to swim closer towards her, feeling cautious.

“Rubbish taste, you have,” Donna chastises. “Guess that doesn’t change with whichever face you’ve got on.”

“I’ve been told it doesn’t, no,” the Doctor says, even though he quite likes his own taste. The Doctor tries to think of something not rude to say, but the voice in his head has nothing forthcoming, so he goes with, “Not to be rude, but what are you doing here?”

Donna huffs. “That _was_ rude. You’re still rude, I see. The more things change, I guess.”

“It’s just,” the Doctor says, now finally swimming closer towards her, towards a part of the pool where he doesn’t have to tread water, where he can just stand, “it’s just I was under the impression you hated me.”

“Yeah,” Donna admits, drawing the word out, one long exhalation of air. “But you’ve gotta admit you’re well hateable.”

He can’t argue with that, so he doesn’t.

They’re silent for a moment.

 _Apologize to her_ , the voice says.

Ah, yes. He’s forgotten his manners.

“I am sorry, you know,” the Doctor says rather quietly. “I didn’t get a chance to apologize. After you woke up, I mean. It’s not an excuse—what I did isn’t excusable—but I panicked. I didn’t have a lot of time to figure out a solution, so I came up with a bad one and just pushed through with it. And once I’d done that, there was no real way to fix it without a very specific piece of technology which, erm, wasn’t readily available at the time, and, even then, I’m. You know. Not the best at facing up to my mistakes.”

“Yeah, I think everyone’s noticed that,” Donna mocks.

The Doctor thinks about insisting that he’s trying, but decides that’s beside the point, and keeps quiet.

“I wasn’t gonna forgive you, you know,” Donna says, staring at her feet kicking in the water, and not looking at him. She brushes at her eyes, and the Doctor realizes she’s crying. “I was going to hate you forever for what you did. Even though it did save my life, it wasn’t what I wanted. So, you helping me out, that wasn’t really helping me. That was just penance, yeah? What you _had_ to do, to not be a right prat. Not a favor.”

“It wasn’t a favor,” the Doctor agrees.

“Hush,” Donna snaps. “I’m talking now, you idiot. I was going to hate you. But then two things happened. One, do you realize how much energy it takes to really hate someone? Like proper, burning rage, hate, yeah? My God, it’s exhausting. Wouldn’t recommend it. And two, well, I was talking with granddad, and you were absolutely banned as a topic of conversation, and he was doing really good with that. But, eventually, I got curious, you know? And he said, he said what you’d been through, recently, and how you’d explained to him why you were really helping me, and it wasn’t…”

Donna trails off. She’s proper crying now, and the Doctor is trying not to squirm. He’s slowly made his way closer towards her as she’s spoken. He’s only a few feet away from her now. The water’s shallow enough over here that part of his chest is outside of the water.

“It wasn’t selfish. ‘Cuz sometimes you’re really selfish. But this wasn’t selfish. It’s almost like you learned something.”

“I did learn something,” the Doctor says quietly.

“Took you bloody long enough. I mean, what? Do you only learn something original every few hundred years?”

“No,” the Doctor says. “I only learn something from my _friends_.”

Donna looks at him now. “What’d you learn from me?”

“The importance of saving people. Even if you can only save one person,” the Doctor says fiercely. “Don’t you recognize the face? That Roman fellow?”

Donna tilts her head. “Nah. Not seeing it.”

The Doctor shrugs. He’s not good with faces, either. Whatever.

“Aww, come here you big idiot,” Donna says, opening her arms wide.

The Doctor does.

Hugs her tight. He’s made a decision about hugs. Or rather he’s had a re-evaluation. Hugs are pretty alright.

They hug each other tightly for about three seconds, then Donna remembers he’s still in a pool, just been swimming, and shoves him back. “Ugh, you’re all wet.”

“You knew that coming into this!” the Doctor accuses.

“You tricked me,” Donna says with a huff, splashing him with water. “And by the way, your swim trunks really do make you look like an idiot.”

**

He offers Donna a trip. One trip before sending her back to Shaun and her life (“By the way, thanks for making me filthy rich. You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”).

He offers Donna one trip in space and time, and he already knows she won’t take him up on the offer.

“You know we wouldn’t just do one trip,” she says. “Besides, you’d cramp my style. You’re practically ancient.”

She’s happy with her life, and Shaun and everything.

He gives Wilf the same offer, but he declines as well. “You always seem to attract trouble. I think I’ll stick to my stargazing.”

And so he says goodbye to them, and Martha (but not before giving her the number of a certain immortal young woman), knowing he probably won’t see them again.

And then, once more, he’s alone.

**

He’s lying in a bed in a room in the TARDIS, looking up at the ceiling.

He can’t quite remember whose bedroom this is. He can’t quite remember why the TARDIS led him here.

 _It was mine,_ the voice reminds him.

Ah, yes. The voice.

 _Clara_ , it supplies.

“I’ve been thinking,” the Doctor says, talking to himself, because sometimes pretending to be sane is too much of a burden, really. “About something Donna said.”

_Really? Want to share with the class?_

“She said I’m selfish.”

_Well, you are._

“I’m looking for you, you know. Do you think it’s because I’m selfish?”

_Could be. Could be you’re looking for me because you’re worried. Could be you’re looking for me because you want to give the two-finger salute to the idea of prophecies._

“Could be. But isn’t, is it?”

_No. It isn’t._

The Doctor is quiet for a long minute. “It’s not what you wanted either.”

_No._

“Selfish. Just like with Donna.”

The voice says nothing. It doesn’t need to.

“I think I’ll stop looking for you. Not completely,” the Doctor amends. “If you show up, I’m not going to run away, or anything. But you know. I’m not going to create a search and rescue party.”

_Probably a good idea._

“Certainly not going to hide in a monastery.”

_That’s good. Shows growth. Definite growth._

The Doctor’s silent for a moment, then continues, “There’s a problem, though. I think, that if I’m going to stop looking for you—Clara, I mean—it’s probably not wise to have you in my head. I mean, ultimately, you’re my conscience, and to compartmentalize and personify your conscience as something wholly separate from you doesn’t seem healthy. I mean, that’s proper mad. I reckon Missy does that.”

_Most likely. I suspect that if she didn’t, it would be much harder for her to be so heinous._

The Doctor nods. “There’s just this other problem. This big other problem. This problem which is the reason you’re a voice in my head in the first place.”

 _Which is_? The voice coaxes.

“I don’t want to forget you,” the Doctor says. “I’ve forgotten so much of you already. This is a way to hold on.”

 _You haven’t forgotten me,_ the voice says gently. _You may not remember her face, or her name, hell, this voice may even be just an approximation, but you remember all the key things. All the important things. You remember what she was like, you remember the sorts of things she would say. You may not remember the words verbatim, but you remember what she taught you. And you remember the experiences._

“Half the time, I can’t even remember her name,” the Doctor protests. He realizes the pronouns in this conversation have gone all funny. He doesn’t care.

 _But the other half of the time you_ do _. Even a neural block can’t take everything the two of you had away._

The Doctor is quiet for a bit. His voice sounds strangled when he speaks again. “I love you. I love her, I mean.”

He reckons she knew that much. He suspects that that’s what _he_ told _her_ in the Cloisters—that sounds like something he’d do. And he’d told her other times, with other words and actions, a thousand different times in a thousand different ways. So he knows she knows that, but it still feels good to say it out loud.

“Do you think she loved me?” the Doctor asks softly.

The voice doesn’t answer. The voice can never answer, because, ultimately, the voice is him. And he can never know for sure. Worse, he doesn’t have the faith, in himself, in his goodness, to ever believe that anyone could love him. Especially someone like Clara.

 _Martha_ , the voice interjects, fierce suddenly. _Donna. Wilf. They love you._

The Doctor sits up in the bed suddenly at that, swings his leg over the edge. This is true. He knows this is true. And so—

 _Clara must have loved you too_.

The Doctor’s stood up now, off of the bed. He adjusts his coat, his Doctor-y coat. Straightens his back a little. He feels better. Not great, but better.

_You make mistakes. But you always try to fix them. Never be cruel, never be cowardly, and if you are, always make amends._

The voice sounds less like Clara now, and more like him.

The Doctor has walked to the door of the bedroom now, has opened the door, has turned to look at the room, gives it a onceover, before walking out, closing the door, closing his eyes.

When he opens his eyes, the door is gone. Deleted, he knows, giving the TARDIS a brief thanks.

 _Done_ , the voice says. It sounds like him now.

He is content. A little drained, but content.

He walks into the console room. It’d be best if he goes somewhere, take his mind off things. He lets the TARDIS decide where he should go—she always knows what’s best for him.

He hears the thudding sound that indicates they’ve landed, but before he can exit, someone knocks at his door. This is absurd and a tiny bit exciting.

Rushing towards the door, the Doctor throws it open in barely contained glee only to find a troupe of off-key carol singers performing an absolutely dire version of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ to him. The Doctor slams the door on them, turns the lock.

“You’ve got some bloody cheek,” the Doctor growls, hunting about for a pen and a piece of paper. “Bet you think you’re funny, yeah?”

The TARDIS is pleased with herself. The Doctor isn’t.

He was looking for adventures, and she’s given him _carol singers_? She must really be losing her touch. He has a feeling nothing will happen here _at all_.


End file.
